you are my sweetest downfall
by tinted lens
Summary: how many stars are there in the sky tonight? / she is a stranger and you are a stranger. pokkle&ponzu. non-linear.


**title. **you are my sweetest downfall**  
summary. **how many stars are there in the sky tonight? / she is a stranger and you are a stranger. pokkle&ponzu. non-linear.

_disclaimed_. title from regina spektor. _lullaby of open eyes_ is a song from the katawa shoujo soundtrack.

**a/n. **yeah. this pairing is my current obsession. why does no one ship this, again? anyway, lowercase/choppy lines/weirdness done on purpose.

.&

confession one: you don't forget.

.&

(she is a stranger and you are a stranger.)

it starts like this:

she asks you a question. you can't remember what it is. you'd like to think it doesn't matter, really, _what is your name_ and _how many stars are there in the sky tonight_?. you'd like to think that you don't know what to say to that because you honestly don't, even now, when you're sitting in a room, across from the future and nothing's changed and you're still the same person you've always been.

she is sitting close to you. her legs are crossed, wrapped, tightly like bandages in white so pale. reminds you of cold snow and empty bedsheets and hastily scribbled once-blank pages, its emptiness replaced by incoherent numbers and words and variables that you can't wrap your head around no matter how you try.

she is ever so vulnerable and ever so innocent and ever so poisonous. such a beautiful contradiction, you think, but you do not bring yourself to tell her that. you wonder if she's talking to you. you look around and there is nobody else in the room. it is too dark in here.

she slides closer. your knees are brushing against hers. she is too close for comfort. but you let her be. you can feel the tips of her hair touching yours, a tangle of soft colors that bleed into eachother. you like it.

your eyes are emptily gazing into the city lights, marveling at artificial stars and man-made skyscrapers that glow in the night. you've always admired them, always from afar like the scared little child you are. it's all too surreal, all too bright. your mind is spinning uncontrollably in a daze, waves of scattered memories threathening to give. to violently collapse. you'd wish it was an oxymoron, but. you can't even laugh at yourself at this point.

your fingertips ghost over the glass surface, searching for something that isn't there. something you're not supposed to own in the first place. you don't know what it is. but you keep on looking.

you look away, perplexed and disappointed. you absent-mindedly answer her question in a mess of words and pictures and jumbled emotions, not even fully sure if she's still here. you and her end up speaking something partially incoherent, like a languange you vaguely know. you can put together half the pieces, but when you try and connect them all it's just what it started as:

(a disjointed union of beauty, taken apart.)

you notice how her eyes are always staring at the darkened ceilling. little miss two-hundred-forty-six, ladies and gentlemen, ever so aloof and distant and unreachable.

it hits you. she is empty. her eyes are empty, isolated from you and the rest of the world and galaxies and ignored by the universe that she subtly observes, mocks delightedly.

the paling moonlight dances around her figure. she doesn't glow or shine or sparkle. she reflects. she reflects in a way a cracked looking-glass would, pieces of a broken mess hiding disconnected beauty underneath their imperfection.

it's too fitting for someone like her. someone like you. someone who can never be a star.

you don't know why you even notice, but you do. you stare. you let it last a second longer than it should.

she lowers her head, tilts it enough for her to lean against your shoulder. she turns to you. smiles, warm and puzzling. you don't smile back. her pasty-white fingers are spinning a web of infinity, eight eight eight. you try not to read into it.

then:

"my name is ponzu." she says, all of a sudden and out of the blue, like a venomous hourglass spider or a scare jump. like she knows. like she thinks it will mean something. like she knows that you will never be able to forget her.

her voice sounds low and absent and cynical. yet, she's all too high and attentive and optimistic for her own good and you feel something stirring in your stomach. you can't figure out which interpretation you should believe in, which road you should follow to find the end of the labyrinth, if there even is an exit at all.

you watch the stars for as long as you can remember. when you wake up, she is gone.

(dreaming.)

.&

confession two: you know too much.

.&

the plates you gather are not enough. apparently. but you manage to secure a small bedroom, close to the ship's edge, and that is all you need. all you need is a rest.

she passes you on your way to your room, quick paces and flashes of turquoise you remember all too well. you barely see the edge of her lips curl up. just for a heartbeat. you can't help but revel in it.

you watch as she disappears in hallways and into one door out of many, identical ones. she slams the door. you stay still, standing on the polished floor and just staring for a whole thirty seconds before entering your own.

you don't bother to lock the room. you throw yourself on the bed, wrinkle the ghostly sheets. you don't care.

you try and close your eyes and she's there in the back of your eyelids. she's painted on the ceilling, drawn on the walls. you look out the dust-covered window and stare at the sea, the color a shade of blue as green as–

–she is a hologram, a shadow. the image you remember is ever so sweet and ever so scandalous. she is an illusion. she is a diamond in the sky, too high up to reach and too low down to adore.

it's too confusing. but, hey, isn't life?

you end up freezing in front of the ship, feeling just a little desperate and just a little confused. you splash your face with cold water, lie on top of the grass barefoot, skin touching the ground, eyes darting over to everything but the truth.

.&

confession three: you don't know what to do anymore.

.&

"hey," she says.

you bite your lip, fumble with your hands. this is very much a problem.

it is that exact moment in which you realize this:

_you're screwed_.

(but you don't tell her that.)

instead:

you grin, looking almost friendly. almost panicked. "hey,"

.&

confession four: you are a good liar. or maybe not. depending on your definition of the word.

.&

it takes longer than needed to realize that you're surprisingly good at this, going wherever the wind takes you.

she takes off her shoes. rolls up her tights. her hair falls just above her chest, in disarray and you can only barely make the colors out in the dark. you don't know what it's supposed to represent. but your story has never been the symbolic one, anyway, so you don't think it matters.

(oh, but you do.)

she looks – _different_ in the night, for lack of a better word. _perfect_, or something along the lines of that, threathens to replace it. but you're better than that. or maybe you're not.

her body reflects the night, darkness and light and everything else. you can just almost see every single star and every single cloud and the crescent moon, messily scattered inside her half-lidded eyes, far and close. she's open and completely fragile and.

she's waiting. she knows what you know. she's always been a step ahead of you, you know?

you lose your guard quicker than you think you would. you press your fingertips to her skin. her hand. it's just nice to touch someone.

she lowers her head, tilts it enough for her to lean against your shoulder, near unconcious. watches the stars until she falls asleep to the lullaby of open eyes.

(_like the first day, do you remember?_ you hear yourself mumble.)

.&

confession five: you don't usually take risks.

(and when you do, it usually ends up with someone being admitted to the hospital and someone else having to swim down a river to retrieve his hat.)

.&

and against all evidence, all clues pointing otherwise:

you kiss her on your way to _victory_. and it is ever so soft and slow and too gentle at all the wrong times, because. that's just who you are. (afraid.).

(you taste honey and sweetness and tears and lullabies on the tip of your tongue.)

she runs her fingers through your hair. you have no idea what to feel anymore, what to be. what other role you're supposed to play. tonight, tomorrow. listen to the audience applause.

tick, tock. tick, tock. forget.

the edges blur, out of focus. the light is too brightbrightbright and you can hardly see. there's just you and her and blankblankblank, white noise of sea waves and distant murmurs and faraway footsteps. her head is resting against the wall, all white and pasty and pale and impersonal. but now there's turquoise all over the surface and your hands tread on it, looking for something to keep her standing.

a whisper. that is what you hear. (or was it a gasp or a breath or a–). it– she sounds like a lot of things at the same time. a quiet melody gently tugging at your heartstrings. the ring of a bell. the silence of solitary.

she pulls away. you can see her lips quiver, shake, almost wanting to say something.

(but just almost. because that's the only thing she'll ever be – _almost_.)

her hands are tangled in yours for the rest of the night.

.&

confession six: _almost_. the word sounds so foreign.

.&

(but this is not a fairytale. not a story of star-crossed lovers.)

you wait and wait and wait. she never returns.

.&

confession seven: you promised.

.&

she tells you this, moments before:

"i want to be remembered." her hands are afloat, touching the air. you wish you can reach the star for her, for yourself.

her eyes are blatantly sad. she leans in, but she doesn't kiss you.

you understand.

.&

confession eight: _what if_?

.&

(you are a stranger and she is a stranger.)

she asks you a question.

she stands across you, smiling. you remember her. her hair is longer, now – but she's still the same and you're still the same and nothing's changed.

you think you may have a chance, this time.

.&

_almost_.

.&

**a/n2. **i have so many ideas running through my head- just when the exams start. great. at least physics is easy.


End file.
